"Cracks. I grew through the cracks on concretebreaking the asphalt violentlywith those pointy bones I haveA child of grey town factory, the gut of Rrr-country, I thrivedwandering through urban swamps,patches of forest eaten by housing projects;abandoned construction sites were my playground.Every spring

trashed school maps uncovered their blank bellies swollen from the melting snow.I foraged and dried them to scribble my itinerariesspared of visas, green cards and borders.I wanted to go far far away. And then come back, and then leave again.

I named the blank countries and their residents using the street sounds that rang both familiar and foreign.I drew palaces for feral cats and toothless homeless hungry babushkas in the middle of the continents I gave my countries the happy communismnot the bleak and pathetic regime my country had.everyone had plenty, everyone was equal, everyone was a queen there. Even me.The cracks i grew through stretched into holes big enough to pull the whole caravan.Cracks. They still are stretching."